


Myselves

by DraconicHex



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: AU - julia gets hit with the holy blood 8-ball instead, Demonic Possession, F/F, F/M, Gen, haha just fuck me up man, you already knew that though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2019-11-21 21:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 20,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18147434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraconicHex/pseuds/DraconicHex
Summary: Julia had always been happy in her place; behind the scenes, quiet, without the fate of the world resting on her shoulders. One day, however, that peace and quiet is broken by longing for a new fate, and that longing shatters her world and her family to splinters.





	1. Epilogue

You always hoped- no, always knew- this was going to happen. The sky lights up in gold and red and you wonder what it’s like to die. The man- no, boy, you’re both still children- that stands before you, his hands outstretched, tears in his eyes… you’re thankful to him. 

Even if your mind would rather rip itself to shreds than acknowledge it.

Not that it’s not doing that already, of course- the red-black-gold-violet mess of visions and thoughts in your mind is already incomprehensible, even to you. The only part you can make out in detail is pure, burning, unremitting anger.

Which, to be fair, is justified. Dying doesn’t usually bring the most positive emotions to the surface. It’s a miracle that you’re still holding on to that crystallized thankfulness as you lie crumpled in thought-colored and torn finery against your empire-prison’s heart. 

What a proper title, to name it after the hall of the dead.

The boy falls to the ground before you (his indigo eyes clash magnificently with the battlefield’s burnt-grass-blood palette) and mouths something to you. You can’t hear it, of course- you can barely see, and the only things you taste and feel are your own wounds- but you think you know.

“I’m sorry.”

The mishmash of hatred that has ruled your mind for years on end is infuriated further by this. You, though, manage to push it down for a few seconds. You have to tell him that it’s not his fault, that if you had only been stronger, only been a little smarter, you would be- it all would be…

You cough up blood, and hear a broken voice that you almost don’t recognize (though of course it’s yours) mumble out the words.

“Tha...n...ou.”

The thoughts in your mind fade to a soft, almost comforting haze. You can’t see any more. Something- someone- collapses on you as you drift away. The last thing you sense is his sobs. 

With you gone, will there maybe be peace?


	2. Chapter 1

In a world that you’ve always been told is like no other, you awaken.

You know in your heart of hearts that it’s a lot like a lot of other worlds, of course. There’s no chance that the gods would only let your wonderful papa be happy in one world, after all! He wants peace for everyone. Surely the Crusaders can appreciate that, right?

That’s what they wanted, after all.

You want that too, and that’s why you’re headed where you’re headed. The sun’s just risen, and you (along with a lantern) are on your way to the library to study the times of peace before you were born.

Of course, your brother has combat training, but you’ll never have to worry about that. You can only use weaker staves when someone’s been hurt already, after all, so until he’s done learning with Mother, you’ve got nothing but free time.

So, as you settle into a comfy armchair in a section full of the oldest books (you’re allowed to read, at least) you read on tactics and diplomacy and cooking and gardening. You don’t want to be a princess like Ishtar, after all. She can’t manage a castle to save her life. You at least want to make sure that Belhalla (or wherever you end up when you’re older) doesn’t fall apart when the men are away quelling whatever rebellion happened this weekend.

Not that there’s been any since you were around five, but it’s always best to be prepared.

...But is that really all that’s in store for you in the future? You squirm in your seat. 

You’re young, so your parents don’t think you understand what they’re talking about, but you know what they mean when they say you should be betrothed to someone soon. They mean that you’re not helpful at all on your own, and your only use is strengthening alliances.

At least, that’s the historical purpose of betrothal of princesses in these books.

...They’re not really wrong, though.

Your blood’s as unique and powerful as maybe a third of the courtiers’. Minor blood’s not exactly hard to find, what with how many children the crusaders and their descendants had. You’re not even skilled at what you train in, either. A mend staff is only going to heal broken bones, not ripped muscle or terrible burns. All you can do is leave people horribly scarred rather than dead.

If that’s so, isn’t it better that you become a trading chip? 

Aaargh, you can’t focus like this. You pick up your lantern, prepared to head back to your chambers, when you hear a voice you can’t quite place or even really hear.

It’s asking someone to do something, but you don’t know who or what.

...Where is it coming from? It sounds like everywhere at once, but you know that can’t be it. Even with magic, voices can only be projected, not duplicated.

“...This is… not the true…”

Not the true what?

“Back… shelf…”

You’re nowhere near the back shelf. Is that where the voice wants the person to go?

You’re overwhelmed by the power of its response. “Yes.”

Taking your lantern, you walk further into the dark archives. You’ve always wondered why this library was so small compared to the one in Friege. After all, shouldn’t the main imperial library have more important documents in it?

Maybe papa keeps them in his offices. 

You finally arrive at the back shelves. They’re taller than the others, so you don’t come back here much. (You can’t even reach the third shelf!) Nevertheless, there has to be something special about them. That voice wouldn’t have beckoned you here if there wasn’t.

It’s not telling you anything else, though. Sighing, you flop to the ground and lean against one of the shelves. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, after all?

Click.

You suddenly find yourself lying on the floor, decidedly not against a bookshelf. Hesitantly, you turn around.

Yep, there’s definitely a passage where there wasn’t one before. Nicely lit, too. The bookshelf has spun near-perpendicularly to the wall, exposing a staircase down deeper into the castle. 

You pick up your lantern and enter, carefully closing the shelf behind you. Whatever this is, you don’t think your parents would be happy with you finding it.

The stairs seem to creak on for forever, and you start to wonder… who exactly did that voice belong to? Why you in particular? What makes you important? 

Before you can finish wondering, though, you stumble upon a pair of intricately engraved doors. Wyvern motifs adorn every corner, covered in gold. Whoever this belongs to, they’re certainly powerful.

Steeling yourself, you place a hand on the left door and give a strong push.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha you thought this was going to all be post-canon. joke's on you! i'm dying. but seriously julia trusting strange voices in your head is no basis for a system of government.


	3. Chapter 2

The room before you is… entirely unexpected. It looks like your papa’s cozy rooms upstairs, except decorated in violet rather than crimson.

There are comfortable armchairs, a long table covered in scrolls, dusty bookshelves filled to the brim… and a cloaked man asleep in the chair by the fireplace.

You know who that is; the man your papa always talks to but tells you children never to talk to. He’s the old man who introduced your parents, Manfroy.

You quietly set your lantern down on the table and curiously peer at the scrolls. Either they’re in an absolutely awful hand, or they’re in a language you can’t comprehend, because you can’t make heads or tails of them. Sighing, you sit in one of the many comfortable armchairs with a creak. 

The old man in the other chair stirs, confused. “Who’s there? If you’re here to kill me, I guarantee you that I’ll-” He stops abruptly on seeing you. “Princess Julia?”

You look on like a bird flinging itself against a window does when you rescue it.

He rises and bows. “Forgive me, Princess. I had no idea whatsoever you were here. If I did, I assure you I would have comported myself more properly.” You awkwardly gesture for him to sit down.

“To be fair, I had no idea you were here either. I found this place by… never mind, that makes me sound absolutely insane. I felt drawn here, and as I’m in the library often, I accidentally found the entrance, you see?”

You oddly enough feel like the guilty one, even though this is your castle.

He waves a hand, absolving you of all guilt. “No, it’s understandable. I was sure you would find this place eventually. After all, you’re a bright girl. Why did you leave the library, though? I would have thought you were satisfied with your learning as it was. Quite the tactician already, after all, aren’t you?”

You glance around to see if there’s a knickknack somewhere in the room that can answer my question instead of yourself. The dragon statue on the mantle and the orbs on the bookshelf don’t seem forthcoming.

You sigh. “I’m glad to be learning what I am, and Belhalla certainly offers plenty of opportunities for me to do so. Yet I can’t help but feel… unfulfilled? When my brother is off at combat practice and I’m reading up on how to become a proper queen for the fortieth time. Even with my small skills, I would like to at least have a chance to learn fire or light magic, but I’m always brushed aside.”

Manfroy nods, almost expectantly.

“So I just wish, somehow, that I knew how to defend myself. I’m no good with staves to begin with, so why am I confined to them? Just because I’m talentless in magic doesn’t mean that I can’t learn it. I mean, look at our fire mage army! Most of them don’t have a drop of holy blood running through their veins, yet they’re still allowed on the front lines. It’s just… not fair.” You slide down in your chair until you’re looking up at the ceiling.

Manfroy stands suddenly. “I think I can remedy your situation, Princess.”

“I’m well aware that it’s near-impossible to learn magic without a tutor, so you’re in a bind in regards to learning alongside your brother. However, even if you have no talent for it, I’ll offer you my services as a tutor. I’m indebted to your father for his work protecting my kind, after all. The least I can do is teach you to defend yourself.”

You can hardly believe your ears. A chance to learn magic? From one of the mages your papa worked with in his youth? It sounds almost too good to be true.

“When can I start?”

He nods, as if this was the expected response. “Tomorrow. Your brother’s almost done with his training for today, and you wouldn’t want your mother to be wondering where you were. So run along now, and I’ll meet you tomorrow at dawn. There’s another room hidden behind this one, where we’ll be training. Good day, Princess.”

You dash up the stairs with such speed you forget your lantern, and hurry to your room to get your staff. When you arrive in the courtyard, your brother is complaining about some small burns on his hand, and your mother is scolding him for his carelessness.

“Julius, I’ve told you a thousand times. When channeling magic, you have to focus it on your target, otherwise it will harm those you don’t mean to hurt. Would you want to accidentally injure Julia someday? You still need far more practice, even with Naga’s blood.”

Your brother mumbles something about being distracted, but his face lights up when you show up. “Julia! Guess what I did in training today? I learned how to- ow!” He’s accidentally strained his burnt hand while waving to you. 

You smile halfheartedly. “Julius, you really need to curb your excitement until you’re not covered in wounds, you know?” You raise your staff in the air and chant the words Mother taught you, those that make wounds disappear like they had never existed in the first place. Julius is better in no time. “But do tell, what did you learn?”

He points at the almost-entirely-pulverized training dummy in front of him. “Aura! Although it’s really confusing to read, I can pull it off in barely half a minute!” He’s beaming.

It’s impossible to be jealous of him when he’s like this. Especially when you know how hard learning magic is on him. He’d much rather be reading alongside you in the library, but he’s got to learn how to be a king that can defend his people, rather than one who stands at the back of his army and lets his people die to protect him.

You wonder what would have happened in a world where we switched places. Would he have been jealous of you?

Probably not. He’d still be the heir, after all.

You’re just doomed to be a side character in every reality, you suppose.

That night, you dream about leading armies into battle, signing treaties, and writing laws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> julia it's really not a great idea to trust creepy old men who live in hidden rooms under your house. like just in general but especially when your dad tells you specifically not to do that.


	4. Chapter 3

The next morning, you dash lanternless to the library, after being sure you’re not watched, and head through the secret passage to meet Manfroy. The room you visited last time’s bookcase is wide open to another, much larger room.

Looking around, you could almost call it an arena, except of course the sky and upper doors are all boarded up. There’s a pile of books on the floor, and a few training dummies. They look a lot sturdier than the ones Julius uses, and you wonder if they’re brand new. 

Manfroy greets you with a smile, which makes you feel something odd inside as you’ve never seen him smile before. Nonetheless, you sit down on the sawdust floor and listen raptly to his explanations.

“You see, dark magic is so named due to the lack of knowledge most people have of it. It also stems from one’s inner emotions, formed into the shapes of living beings. For example-” he grabs an embossed leather tome and stands to face the training dummy- “Jormundgandr, the snake that encircles the world, a symbol of beginning and ending.”   
A large, skeletal snake rises out of the tome and encircles the training dummy, squeezing its torso so strongly you grab at your own throat instinctively. 

“Now you try.” He hands you the tome. “Draw on your inner emotions, and guide Jormundgandr to do your bidding.”

You lift the tome in front of you. Somehow, it feels light as air. “Jormundgandr.” you breathe. Almost instantly, the snake appears before you, as if you called for it as its master. When you nod, it coils around the dummy, tightly enough to make the wood of its torso creak and crack.

You feel, for the first time in your life, a type of power that you’ve never seen in anyone else.

No sooner do you feel that, however, than the snake fades away.

Summoning it again, however, proves easier than you had thought, and soon enough you are moving on to more specialized magics. 

The time you spend training flies, and soon enough you’re back to healing your brother. Somehow, you feel more confident with a staff as well now. Perhaps a simple bit of combat magic competence was all you needed.

Of course, lessons don’t get any easier from there. Complicated magic, like Stone and Hel, take significantly more time for you to even perform poorly. Nonetheless, eventually you master them. Your brother still seems to be stuck on Nosferatu, but you’re sure that he’ll eventually get it. Aura, of course, is more powerful than anything you can pull off.

You slowly spend more of your time besides your lessons buried in books. The library has enormous sections on the history of magic, and you devour every word, even though it’s mostly on anima. Apparently, the reason Silessians favor wind magic is because their cold, mountainous region is filled with wind spirits, who help bolster their power. Fascinating.

You wonder if there was a wildfire in the Velthomer region sometime.

This newfound interest of yours doesn’t come without consequences, though. Even a week into your learning, you hear maids gossipping about you. “The princess is hiding from her responsibilities by reading about things she can’t do.” “The princess is frankly acting strangely, you know? She’s become far less social.” Nonsense like that. It’s none of your business if they don’t know how vital your studies are.

You do have to admit, though, you might be becoming a bit clumsy. There’s a red mark on your forehead, as if you’ve fallen into the edge of a bookcase in your exhaustion. You have been working rather hard, and you’ve been stumbling to bed in the middle of the night. It might be a good idea to lower your studies’ intensity for a while.

But perhaps in a little bit. After all, tomorrow, Manfroy said, he would teach you the final piece of magic you needed for your repertoire. After that, you can take a short break.

Those are your thoughts as you slump into bed and extinguish your candle, drifting into night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three guesses why there's a hidden entrance to an arena under belhalla castle and the first two don't count!


	5. Chapter 4

You roll out of bed just before dawn, and hear your brother stirring in the room next door. You’ll have to be quick if you don’t want to be seen, so you throw on a white and lavender sundress even though it’s early spring, and run barefoot to the library.

When you reach the hidden room, you’re surprised that the door to the arena isn’t open. Instead, Manfroy is simply sitting in the armchair you met him in, holding a heavy-looking black tome. You perch in the armchair across from him, and question him on why the arena isn’t being used today. 

“This magic… it simply takes time to get used to its presence. You won’t be casting it at all today, in all likelihood, Princess.”

“What do you mean by ‘presence’?” You peer at the gold-embossed cover, with its central red gem, with some curiosity.

“The power contained within this book is extremely difficult, and if you attempt to cast it while your aura is unaligned with that power, there may be disastrous consequences.”

You nod. “That seems like it makes sense. What should I do to get accustomed?”

“To put it simply… read it.”

He thrusts the book into your hands. Suddenly, you’re nowhere.

To put it more precisely, you are still sitting in your armchair. Except the armchair is in a dark void, and you can’t move. No one is sitting in the chair opposite you now.

At least, no one you can see. 

Your vision of the chair distorts, almost like there’s a heat haze between me and it. Suddenly, you are not alone, although your heart is screaming at you to be alone, to not be here, to run away, to escape, that you’ve been tricked.

A deathly pale woman sits opposite to you, smiling in a way that makes you stomach turn. The only color in the void the two of you occupy are her scarlet, unblinking eyes.

“Good morning, Julia. I trust you know who I am, with all your studies? If not, you’re far less intelligent than I thought.”

You shake your head. She laughs, as if that lack of recognition was the most hilarious joke she had ever heard.

“Ah, of course, I forgot. You’re still a child, aren’t you? Of course you wouldn’t have been taught your homeland’s bloody history at that age. Not that it matters. I’m sure you’ll recognize my name at least.” She rises to her full height (which in the back of your mind, in your terror, you oddly think isn’t very intimidating as she’s barely a foot taller than you). 

“I am Loptyr, Jugdral’s feared dark god. And you carry my blood.”

You can’t say anything. You can’t feel anything. There’s just one thought in your mind.  
Why?

Why did you have to be so stupid?

She seems to know what you’re thinking, and laughs. “It’s not really your fault, you know. After all, you’re only human. You’re all weak-minded idiots, so who can blame you for wanting power?”

“Thanks to you, though, I’m going to have an utterly wonderful time.”

Laughing, she disappears from the void you’re in. Suddenly, you’re back in the hidden room. Manfroy is shaking your shoulder. “Julia? Princess Julia? Are you alive?”

Without trying to, you roughly slap his hand away, and then your mouth opens to speak words that aren’t yours.

“You’re presumptious, daring to refer to me without an honorific. And I obviously am, no thanks to your sluggishness. Do you really think that this body would have died, had you done this any earlier? You’re utterly incompetent compared to my former Archbishops.”

Your stomach turns as you realize that that is why your father told you never to speak to him. Your papa knew how dangerous he was, and tried to warn you, but he couldn’t.

You slide out of your chair (again against your will) and land on the floor with a thump. “Ah. I forgot how small this one was. Oh well.” You pick up that awful tome and bring yourself to a standing position. “Well, I have some business to go to. Tell the Sect that I live while I take care of it, and good day to you.”

What is business? You don’t know, but that awful, awful look in the woman’s eyes before she disappears sends chills down your spine.

As does the fact that she’s walking towards the courtyard where Julius and your mother are training at a swift pace.

When you get to the courtyard, the first thing that strikes you is what a gorgeous day it is. The trees are budding, daffodils are blooming, and birds are chirping. 

That feeling slowly turns to horror as you realize that your pace is not slowing. Your mother turns around to greet you, and her eyes widen in shock at the expression on your face.

“Julia? What on earth are you doing? What is that book?”

You feel your face twist into a malicious smile, and the words you say horrify you.

“I’m going to kill you, obviously! What else would I be doing?”

Your brother whirls around, staring at you. He drops his tome to the ground, and you want to scream at him _no! don’t drop it! keep it beside you! protect yourself!_

But of course, you can’t move. You feel the all-too-familiar rush of dark magic run through your veins to coalesce at your fingertips as a deep violet cloud, then watch helplessly as it forms into a snakelike dragon. It rushes Julius, while you try desperately to close your eyes but can’t, digs its claws into his arm, and then-

Then he’s gone. The only evidence he was there in the first place is a splash of blood on the ground and the remaining humming energy from a staff spell.

You hear yourself give a horrible, guttural growl. The dragon changes directions abruptly, and you focus on your mother, holding a warp staff helplessly in front of herself as it charges.

When the dragon disappears, you can barely parse the pile of burnt flesh in front of you as your mother. The only recognizable feature you can see is her bloodied silver hair.

Your body laughs. You want to vomit. You know now that whatever you do, no story with you in it will ever have a happy ending.

You carelessly prance back to your room in your bloodstained robes, passing several guards on the way with a smile on your face. It’s obvious that Loptyr wants her crime known to the world.

You bathe, then wrap yourself in a fluffy robe and sit facing the door. You know what’s coming.

Sure enough, in just a few minutes, you hear racing footsteps in the hall and then pounding on your door. A voice hoarsely screams out to you. “Julia, let me in or so help me gods I will burn this door down and you with it. What have you done? What have you DONE?”

You serenely walk over to the door and open it to be faced with your papa’s tear-streaked visage. You make no reply but smiling calmly at him.

He falls to the ground, sobbing. You’ve never seen him like this, not even when the queen of Silesse was murdered against his orders. He looks… broken.

“I protected myself, Father. Would you rather I live in constant danger? Aren’t you proud of your favorite daughter for being proactive? Hmm?” You place a small finger under his chin, to tilt it up to face you. “Or are you so weak that you’d really rather sacrifice the power of your empire in exchange for the lives of two people who would destroy it?”

He stares up at you in horror.

“Are you so proud of me that the cat’s got your tongue? I understand entirely.” You laugh in his face. He recoils.

“You… you aren’t my daughter. You aren’t Julia. Who are you? What are you?”

You smile. “Oh, but I am your daughter. The fact that I’m an embodiment of your foolishness doesn’t erase that, you know?”

“Foolishness? How dare you, I raised Julia to be filled with kindness an-”

You place a finger on his lips. “Shhhhh, not those. Your mistake was having her be born at all. After all, do you know where your lovely Deirdre was born?”

“What do you-”

“The southern woods of Verdane, of course. Now, what do you think that makes you?” You have no idea what you’re going on about, but your father looks utterly horrified.

“Wait- does that mean- Manfroy! He-” He turns on his heel, about to dash away (no doubt to kill Manfroy for what he’s done). However, you grab him by the cape, effortlessly holding him in place.

“I think you’re misunderstanding something here. You see, I won’t let you kill Manfroy, as this castle now belongs to me. You can either fall into line, or join your beloved Deirdre, you know?”

He stares at you for a few seconds, confusion written across his face. “Wait. Only Deirdre?”

Your face contorts in rage, and you fling him into the hall with all the force you can muster before slamming and locking your door, before mumbling some curses to yourself. All you can think about, though, is that last line. “Only Deirdre.” You’ve been reminded of something very important- the fact that there’s at least one happy ending left in this world. The fact that it doesn’t involve you is irrelevant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahahaha. fuck, man.


	6. Interlude I

You awaken, sluggishly, to the rattling sensation of someone shaking you. You feel, vaguely, like a wooden doll, being tossed around by a child enraptured in their play.

You soon realize, though, that whoever is shaking you is not amused. In fact, they’re worried, calling out and pinching your face to see if you respond.

What were you doing before this, anyway? The person shaking you is probably someone you know. Maybe you tripped and fell while playing, and knocked yourself out? But then, why does your arm hurt so much?

You blink your eyes open and are assaulted by a large quantity of the color green. When your vision clears, you realize that the green belongs to hair, and the hair belongs to a man- quite a tall one, with a worried, shaken expression. You strain to hear what he’s saying.

“Child, are you alright? What happened to you? Your arm’s in shreds and you’re in an alleyway in Belhalla, sleeping like an angel. Here, let me-” The man pulls out a healing staff. You can only watch bemusedly with the little energy you have as the wound in your arm fades into rough, uneven scars. 

The man sighs. “What’s your name, at least? I have to have something to refer to you by, if I’m going to help you recover from that blood loss you have.”

What is your name, anyway? What were you doing? It’s way too confusing. Maybe just focus on your name for now. What are you called, what are you called… oh!

You sleepily smile at the man. “I’m Julius.” you say, immediately before slipping back into unconsciousness.


	7. Chapter 5

You wake up to hear yourself humming. It’s been over a week since your worst- and last- mistake, and you’re looking yourself in the mirror with an appraising eye.

Internally, you think you look horrible. Your eyes are crimson now, making you look like a devil. Your silver hair is perfectly brushed, lifelessly hanging from your small head rather than crumpled from running around and playing. You’ve brushed your bangs to the sides of your face to show off that unsightly red mark that you now realize was a crusader’s brand. Instead of your usual lilac, you’re in a grim black and gold dress, with a veil pinned to the side of your face. 

At least today, the occasion calls for it, though you wish it didn’t.

Loptyr seems to be quite pleased with how you look, at any rate. She brushes your bangs to the side once again, and gives a little giggle.

Of course she’s cheerful today, considering the occasion. You want to curl up in bed until the day is over and everyone is gone, but you expect she’s going to spend as much time out and about as possible, to torment you.

After all, today is your mother and brother’s funeral.

Your father hid all the evidence of your brother still being alive, thankfully. Now Loptyr won’t have informants without seeking them out herself. 

He also hid why your mother died, though. Blaming it on an assassin that wanted to destroy the Empire, rather than come out and say his own daughter was a lunatic.

Really, you’d rather him have done the latter, but you didn’t have any say in anything anyway, so why think about what you’d prefer to have happened?

At least you’d get to see Ishtar again… even though you’d probably be horrible to her. You couldn’t imagine what Loptyr would want to do to the still-accessible person her nemesis loved.

You realize that you’ve been thinking so hard that you’re almost down the stairs to the grand hall already. You recline into a dining chair that’s definitely not meant to be reclined in and peer over the back at the servants nervously arranging the funeral accoutrements. 

They’re all afraid of you, of course. Gossip spreads like wildfire in any court, and Belhalla is no different. Everyone’s talking behind your back about how you murdered your mother and brother, that you went mad one day and are planning on killing the Emperor too.

Frankly, you don’t know if you are or not. You’re not privy to what Loptyr is thinking, and neither is she to your own thoughts. At least, you hope.

A maid trips over herself and drops her bouquet of lilies on the floor, crushing them in her fall. She was too busy nervously looking over her shoulder at you to look where she was going. You feel your face twist into a painfully-wide grin. 

After what seems like ages, Loptyr tires of scaring the servants and rushes off to the front hall to meet the visitors instead. Internally, you cringe at how she’s going to act. She’s been nothing but rude and overbearing to every resident of Belhalla ever since she was capable of it.

Surprisingly, though, when you enter the front hall, you come to a sudden halt. Loptyr’s attention has been caught by something. That something soon shows itself as a small lizard-like creature in a boy that seems a little older than you’s lap. You can’t help but find yourself fascinated by it, too, despite your desire to not like anything Loptyr does.

You hurry over to him and stare at the scaly creature for a few seconds before Loptyr remembers to introduce yourself. 

“Oh, forgive my manners. I was just so fascinated by this little one that I forgot myself for a moment. I am Princess Julia. Who are you?”

The boy laughs warmly. Apparently your possessed antics are at least somewhat entertaining. “I’m Arion of Thracia, King Trabant’s son. This little one is named Njorun, as a bit of hope, I suppose.” Of course. Njorun was the crusader of Manster, which Thracia desperately hopes will someday be reunited with it. Of course, with the Frieges in command there now, it seemed unlikely, but…

“May I pet her? She’s lovely, you know.” You can only hope that being possessed by an evil god that’s fascinated by dragons will end badly for you. Nevertheless, the boy acquiesces, and soon you find yourself petting smooth, coppery scales. You barely notice the other nobles in the hall chatting amongst themselves about you, getting your skirt dirty on the floor, petting a tiny wyvern, and ignoring everyone else.

Eventually, though, Loptyr is snapped out of it by a gentle pat on your back. A girl’s soft voice calls out to you. “Julia? Are you doing alright?”

You awkwardly bring yourself to a standing position, and are greeted by a girl whose hair almost rivals yours in how brightly silver it is. “I was just wondering, you know, since the accident, how you’re dealing with it all.” They’re well hidden, but you can see tear tracks on her face, and her eyes are puffed up a little. You brush off your skirt in a gesture that you would never have done were you in control, and half-hope that she notices. 

“Well, I’m dealing with it as well as I can.” Which is, of course, laughing about it with Manfroy and tormenting your father as you’ve been grieving on your own in your mind. “But how are you? After all, you were betrothed to Julius. I can only imagine the impact it had on you.” And there’s that cruelty you predicted. Ishtar’s eyes fill up with tears, and she’s about to respond when a scolding voice calls out from behind her. 

“Ishtar, dear, are you bothering the princess? You should know better. We are here to pay our respects, not detract from the imperial family’s grief.” Ishtar’s mother nods at me apologetically. “My sincere apologies. She’s not usually this selfish, are you, Ishtar?”

Hilda’s an awful, awful person. You wonder if she had the power that you do, if she wouldn’t be just as cruel as Loptyr. You then brush the thought aside. Even if she’s awful to Ishtar, she would never murder her.

Your eyes, however, are fixed on her. Apparently Loptyr sees something interesting there. As soon as you make that deduction, flattering words start spilling from your mouth. 

“Oh, it’s no issue at all. We’re all out of our right states of mind due to all this. Your politeness is greatly appreciated, though. I can always rely on the Friege family to be level-headed, I see.”

Hilda practically glows with pride. You’ve never given her the time of day before, so she probably thinks that you’ve grown to like her. Or that you’re acting like a completely different person, which is the more correct idea.

Either way, the ceremony is starting, and you are all called to the main hall. You take your time, picking your way between chairs, until you just so happen to end up right next to Arion. Your father won’t even look at you, so there’s no point in sitting by him.

You lean on Arion as the priest (Edda, not Loptyrian) shuffles up to the front of the room and blesses your mother and brother’s souls. You even manage to shed a few crocodile tears as your father says your mother’s eulogy. Loptyr can’t manage that for your brother, though. It’s hard enough for her to stop herself from bursting out in rage that he’s still alive. You feel your nails dig into your skin, and you’d probably be wincing in pain if you could right now.

As it is, though, you sit still throughout the entire ceremony, and hang back with Arion’s baby wyvern while everyone else gathers around the (closed) coffins to talk about the wonderful person your mother was. 

Afterwards, Arion comes back to pick up Njorun, and you thank him for letting you meet her. As everyone disperses, you stalk back to your room like a particularly ominous salamander in a dress. Loptyr makes you sigh, looking out the window at the promenade of various nobles leaving. As soon as they’re all gone, Loptyr skips out the door to find your father.

(You can’t call him papa anymore. Not after what you did.)

He’s standing in the courtyard as usual, staring at the clear spring sky as if it’s going to tell him what he needs to hear. Of course, the only thing he’s going to hear is you snapping out orders at him, as if he wasn’t the Emperor at all.

“Hello, Father.” He snaps to attention immediately, his fight-or-flight response activating instantly on seeing you. “I’m here to tell you I’ve found a suitable husband, and you will be conducting diplomatic activities with his father effective immediately.”

You see him sigh, glad to not be in danger for now. He’s still utterly confused, though.

“You’ve chosen a husband? At that age? Do you even know him?”

“It doesn’t matter. His connections make him valuable for the growth of our empire. Are you really questioning me?”

He shakes his head. That’s how it’s been since your mother died- him acting like a reed in the wind that was Loptyr’s whims. “Who is it, then?”

You smile, almost genuinely. “Arion of Thracia. Do you see what I told you about his usefulness?”

Your father nods. “I see what you mean. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Excellent.” You turn on your heel and storm off to your rooms victoriously, while internally confused about Loptyr’s choice. Was it really just a whim, enamoured as she was with dragons? Or was there something else to it?

Either way, nothing you could do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "arion's no good very bad life"


	8. Chapter 6

Dreams, nowadays, are your only respite. A place where you can’t hurt or be hurt by anyone, where you don’t even have to see another human’s face if you don’t want to. Tonight, you’re sitting on the edge of a cool green forest, watching the waves lap against a gravelly shore before you. You’ve never seen this place before, but somehow, it feels more like home than Belhalla ever has. 

A breeze brushes through your hair, making the leaves above you whisper something no one but themselves can understand. It calms you, as if it’s telling you everything will be alright, someday.

You listen more intently to what the leaves are whispering. Maybe if you focus enough, you’ll-

You’re awakened by a series of loud thumps. 

It’s still entirely dark, without even the moon lighting on your tiny body, curled and contorted into the oddest sort of “comfortable” position you could ever imagine. It takes you a while to get a grasp of your surroundings, and from your body language, Loptyr seems to be confused as well. 

Luckily, you don’t have time to be confused for long, as the thumps transition into a loud crash, and your door falls flat into your room. Outside the door, crowding together into an indistinguishable mass, is what from your estimation appears to be at least half a platoon of warmages, all wielding fire magic. 

Your face contorts into an ugly snarl. “What is the meaning-”

You’re interrupted by what you presume is the leader of the warmages. “If your highness would please come with us. The Emperor wishes to speak with you.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you hazard a guess that these men weren’t told much if they truly are here to apprehend you. The front of your mind is more preoccupied with the fact that, completely counter to expectations, you’ve calmly exited your bed and shrugged on a robe over your nightgown. “I am always happy to oblige my father. Where might I encounter him?”

The head mage shakes his head. “We will be escorting you there, your highness.”

Some part of your mind (you’re not quite sure whose) is highly opposed to that notion. Despite that, you give a curt nod and enter the custody of the (nearly full platoon of) fire mages.

You’re oddly relaxed about this, despite the approximately zero percent chance that it will go well for anyone involved. Perhaps you’re still nursing a hope that your father can save you, or at least save everyone else from you?

Whatever the cause of your relaxation, it quickly dissipates when you are escorted into the western hall, and are greeted by your father in full ceremonial robes, with a haggard look on his face. 

Your worries increase when he dismisses the mages with a wave of his hand. Evidently, he expects at least some conflict here. Before you can think further on it, though-

 

“Julia.” He pronounces your name as one would the verdict for a trial. “I trust you know why you are here?”

“I’m afraid not, dearest father. I’ve only achieved a passable level of mind-reading, you see, not anything to delve into the depths of the mind of someone who makes less sense than red wine with fish.” You’ve never had wine, but you assume that you know what you’re talking about on this. “I would assume that you’re mildly displeased with me, judging by invading my chambers with enough mages to fry a small city, but other than that I’m afraid I’m drawing a blank, dear father.”

Your father replies in a tone of voice that you’re surprised isn’t more strained. “Julia… you are not to call me that any longer.”

“What, nonsensical? I see little reason to stop calling you something if that something isn’t a falsehood, father.”

He grasps at something under his robes. “You are not to call me your father.”

You stand frozen, like a small, dour statue. “Excuse me?”

“You are not my daughter, nor the heir to Grannvale’s throne. In fact, as of today, you are exiled from the Empire.”

Something leaps in your heart. He hasn’t been broken! He was just biding his time until he could get rid of the monster that lives within you. You’ll- you’ll…

You’ll start to smile very widely, apparently. 

“Oh, I understand now!” Your voice has almost taken on its normal childish pitch. “I see.”

You return to your now-everyday growl. “You think you have a choice in the matter.”

Your father is now rummaging more hurriedly in his robes, and you suddenly realize why. He wasn’t expecting this to go smoothly, so he dismissed the mages and brought-

The room is suddenly illuminated with the golden-red glow of Valflame.

In the back of your mind, you vaguely remember that you’re not carrying a tome to defend yourself, and feel a jolt of fear. Despite your desperate desire to be stopped, you’re afraid.

Only you, though, feel fear. You simply stand and gaze at the flames gathering in the corners of the hall, slowly growing into a glowing ball of fire, with your arms hanging loosely at your sides.

Has Loptyr given up? Did she realize she was tricked? Are you going to die here?

The answer to the final question seems to be fast approaching “yes”, as the heat and glow of Valflame descend towards you in your frozen state. The light glows brighter and hotter and you want to jerk away and dodge and run but you can’t and-

Somehow, you gain enough control of yourself to, for a single second, feel your face contort in terror. Wildly, you look over at your father, and you lock eyes for what feels like minutes.

And then suddenly the fire is gone, and you’re standing straight and tall again. Your father has an expression of terror and confusion on his face, as the flames in his outstretched hand fizzle out. “Ju…lia?”

He’s shaking, apparently just now realizing what he attempted to do.

You, no longer yourself, nod. “Indeed, father. That is the first of my three names, Julia Fala Velthomer. I will thank you to remember the latter in future.” You slowly extend your hand, unarmed as you are, towards him. “Shall I give you something to remember it by?”

Your hand is enveloped in dark mist as you’ve seen once before and oh no no no 

You want to scream out to stop, that this isn’t you, that your father should kill you here and now, but you can’t move.

The dragon rushes out from you again and you look on helplessly as it charges towards your father and- drags its claws into his shoulder before vanishing completely?

“Let this be a lesson to you, dearest father. I am never helpless.” 

As your father curls up on the ground, clutching his shoulder, and you hear the shouts of the previously dismissed mages and their footsteps thundering through the halls, you sweep back to your room once more, to a night that will now be filled with nightmares till morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unfortunately, arvis has terminal dad syndrome. the symptoms are turning into putty when your daughter talks to you and some gnarly scars on your shoulder for the rest of your life


	9. Chapter 7

At least he’s not dead. At least, no matter what, he isn’t dead. 

That’s what you keep telling yourself, at least. But it’s hollow comfort. In less than two months, you’ve killed your mother, scarred your father, and done Crusaders know what to your brother. And it’s unlikely you have any intention of stopping, considering what happened to the mages who pursued you after your father tried to exile you.

It’s only a matter of time until something worse happens, though you don’t know exactly what. You curse yourself for not reading up more on the Loptyrian Empire’s atrocities while you still had sole control of your body and mind, but there’s no use crying over spilled milk. Or blood, you suppose.

At least Loptyr’s been mostly occupied with the finalization of your betrothal to Arion, which came as a surprise to both him and his father. He didn’t exactly expect to be proposed to after a first meeting, but with a little heavy-handed cajoling, he came around. The past few days, though… the past few days have been occupied with something else.

You’ve been meeting with Manfroy in the wee hours of the morning, sharing bits of information that you don’t understand, plans written in an indecipherable language, and laughing. An awful lot of laughing. 

You’re heading to another meeting today, but this is different. Loptyr woke you early, and spent hours fussing in front of the mirror, humming that same eerie tune she always did when she was enjoying herself. You never expected an evil god to be this vain, but you supposed that it was something like dressing up paper dolls. She wasn’t dolling herself up- she was dolling up the human girl who made a pale imitation of her colorless body to be a bit more… like home. You shudder. 

As you look in the mirror one last time, you’re struck by the thought that your robes look oddly ceremonial. Red-violet peeks out from the black and gold, mirroring Manfroy’s priestly cloak. You wonder if today’s meeting will be more religious, rather than the usual political plotting. But it’s not like you can know.

You sweep down the halls like a ghost, not even having bothered to grab a lantern. When you reach the library, you rap on the bookshelf leading to the basement quickly and roughly, as if you expected it to open before your mere presence. When it does turn against the wall, you adjust your cloak slightly before walking down the stairs to a room that you now know is rightfully yours, not Manfroy’s. The wyvern-engraved doors swing open, and you’re greeted by a strangely formal scene.

Instead of the long table being cluttered with books and scrolls, it is utterly pristine. With the one exception of Manfroy at the end with a blank scroll and quill pen, there is simply nothing there.

Except for, of course, the priests. Six cloaked figures (you hazard a guess that four are men and two are women, but you can’t be sure) line the sides of the table, standing at attention. When you enter the room, they immediately bow, to your utter revulsion. As you take your seat at the head of the table, they remain standing until you motion for them to sit.

Loptyr truly is considered a lord, isn’t she.

Your voice takes on the commanding but more amiable tone that you always use when conversing with the Archbishop, as you address your six guests. “Welcome. It is of the utmost importance that we reach all corners of Jugdral with the information from our meeting today. Therefore, I will make note of the fact that the bishops of Thove, Yied, Silvail, Sophara, Manster, and Miletos made the appropriate decision to attend this meeting and remember it in future. As it is, I trust you all are aware of why you are here.”

The bishops nod. 

“As we are now in a position of authority in the Empire, it would be prudent for our next move to be one that strengthens that position. Therefore, we must increase both our ranks and power in one fell swoop.”

The bishops nod again. Syncophants. If Loptyr wants to be more powerful, though, isn’t it obvious she’d need greater military might? What is she playing at?

“Therefore-” your face is graced with a small smile now, which makes you internally wince- “it would be in our interest to reinstate our well-worn method of gaining both recruits and power. The Emperor is now in the palm of my hand, which now makes it a possibility; therefore, it is my desire to see the child hunts put back in play as swiftly as possible.”

The-

You can’t think. This is too much. She can’t actually be using your body as a puppet to say these things. It’s an impossibility.

What will happen to your father if he refuses? What will happen to you? You’ll be leading this horror of horrors, the tale you’re told from the history books ever since you’re old enough to understand the concept of death. The tale that makes the Loptyrian Empire a boogeyman that little children learn of, to not trust strange cloaked men, to always stay out of the woods, because they’re still out there, looking for you…

You’re the one that’s still out there.

You start shaking with distress to a level that even Loptyr can’t quell. The bishop closest to you on your right asks if you are well, and you brush him off with a callous response. 

“Of course, of course, Bishop Manster. It’s only a slight chill, since this vessel is so small and weak. Now, do we have any questions as to our course of action?”

You dully look on as the furthest bishop to your left (apparently the bishop of Sophara) questioningly raises her voice. “My lady-” her voice quivers- “are you sure that it is wise to do this so soon? We are, after all, small in number, and you are still young. Would it not be more prudent to wait a few years, until we have spread our influence further?”

You snap at her. “And what, exactly, do you think is the reason our influence has not spread? You wizened old clergy sit in your shrines and teach all day, as our numbers dwindle to near nothingness, and you expect us to magically gain more recruits when we’ve been the subjects of a witch hunt for over a century? I don’t mind jokes once in a while, but that is an especially poor example of one. Though, you do have a point.” You sit back in your chair, mulling something over. “We should focus our attention on one region at a time, to more wholly gain control over it, rather than spread our clergy too thinly- you are correct there. Time is, however, of the essence. Where should we begin?”

You ask the question as casually as one would ask whether they should pick roses or lilies to wear in their hair one day. Manfroy immediately responds.

“My lady, might I suggest Miletos? There has been considerable unrest in the area, due to the prevalence of unaligned merchants’ guilds, and they might prove a suitable example…”

You smirk. “That would be quite the message, yes… The region’s history certainly doesn’t hurt when considering it. Yes, that should do nicely.” You stand. “I expect correspondence about our efforts within the month. I again thank you for your attendance, and you are now excused.” 

Like the cloud of disaster that you are, you slip out of the room and up the stairs, a wicked smile on your face as you go to meet your father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just call julia a corkscrew, because it's now time for her downward spiral


	10. Interlude II

The sun’s light peeks through the thin curtains, seeming almost like a playful sibling’s poke when it wakes you up. Musing on that metaphor for a bit, you’re sure you’ve experienced that somewhere, but where?

Either way, breakfast isn’t going to make itself. Lewyn’s probably exhausted from night watch, so if you can scramble up some eggs, you should feel filled for awhile before he can make something more nourishing. Since, of course, he won’t let you handle sharp things, even though your arm’s been healed for months now, with some half-hearted excuse of you being too young.

Despite the fact that you have to practice your healing magic daily. You’d think that putting someone’s life in your hands was more dangerous than letting an eleven-ish year old handle sharp implements, but Lewyn always looked at you as if you’d break in a light breeze, so you never pushed the issue.

Even if it meant fried eggs and garlic for breakfast for the tenth time since he had some sort of premonition that something was wrong, and started spending nights awake, watching for something, whatever it was.

You push the flimsy door open into the sunny kitchen, drawing in the sight of dried herbs neatly hanging from the ceiling in sharp contrast to the blackened stovetop of the old-fashioned potbelly that neither of you ever bothered to clean. Despite its untidiness, though, it was bright and airy like the rest of the cottage, and, you think, a place you’d decidedly enjoy staying in forever.

But fate, or at least Lewyn, seemed to have other plans. A pair of slightly burned baked potatoes sat on the table, completely ignored by your guardian as he rifled through papers and clothes and light armor all piled up higher than the dirty dishes in the sink. He was tossing some of it aside with muttered frustration, and stuffing the rest into a rucksack that didn’t seem like it would fit it all.

When he sees you, he curses loudly. “Dawn be damned, Julius, couldn’t you wait for me to get ready to come out? Now I have to explain all this to you and then have you breathing down my neck while I finish up packing.” He hesitates for a moment. “Uh, apologies. I’m just a bit stressed, you see.”

You fling yourself into a chair and grab a fork, then start attacking the potato with all the force of a thousand armies. “You never explain anything, Lewyn. Even who you are! The only reason I have to trust you is your treating my wound that one time, and after that you’ve been shuttling me around Jugdral, running from imaginary threats and making it impossible for me to meet anyone my own age. For someone who says he’s also a father, you do a pretty bad job of it, you know?”

The last comment goes entirely ignored by Lewyn, whose frown only creases deeper when you mention meeting friends your own age. “About that, I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s gonna get any easier for you to do that. That’s why we’re packing up today, you see.”

“What do you mean that’s why? Like I said, you never explain anything! I-”

“Julius, I was getting to that. I’ve told you about the Loptyrian Sect gaining more influence in recent years, correct? And I assume you know the Lopt Empire of the past’s favorite pastime.”

“Wait, are you talking about- It’s a danger to me to stay here because of that? Wouldn’t the emperor make it impossible for something like that to happen?”

Lewyn sighs, and sits down beside you. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But no. Apparently the child hunts are being reimplemented on a signed and sealed order from His Majesty Arvis Belhalla himself. That’s why we need to go somewhere remote, not Friege. If we stay here any longer, you’re bound to be found.”

You stand up with such force and speed you knock your chair over and almost knock yourself out from the blood rushing to your head. “Unacceptable! I can’t just run away and leave thousands of other children my age to become sacrifices for some twisted god! I can heal people, you have your wind magic, we could at least save someone, couldn’t we? Couldn’t we, Lewyn?” 

He wordlessly continues packing your belongings into the bag and finally tightens the drawstring and pulls a knobbly wooden staff with intricate engravings on it from below the table. “There’s not going to be an argument here. We’re going to Isacch, no matter how much of a bleeding heart you want to be.”

“Why?”

Your shout could shatter glass, if you were a little stronger. As it is, it causes Lewyn to flinch back and cup his hands over his ears, with a disgruntled expression on his face. “I don’t want to lose you, and if you’re going to try and mount a resistance in one of the Empire’s capital cities, you will die. That’s as cut and dried as it can be. Come on.”

He gestures the rewarp staff towards the door, and knowing he won’t be moved, you sigh and wish this home you loved a goodbye. You wonder what Isacch is like as the warmness of warping magic envelops you and your particles momentarily enter the world between worlds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, more julius! unfortunately, we don't get to see his Happy Home Life with lewyn because it's not Plot Relevant. i tried to give him a little more resolve than canon!julia does, but it's not particularly because of who he is and more that it's absolutely unrealistic for someone with no memories to be such a wet blanket.


	11. Chapter 8

“Aaaarion.”

You- surprisingly gently- poke the sleeping boy’s cheek. “Arion, it’s morning. The sun has been up for hours. Shouldn’t a strapping young warrior be up too, especially to meet his betrothed?”

He rolls over towards the wall, mumbling something about feeding his wyvern. He’s been here for three days now, and every single morning of his has been spent avoiding the terrible, heart-wrenching task known as “getting up.” Personally, you wouldn’t blame him, since spending time with you is about as pleasant as voluntarily driving nails into your eyes, but “you’re” still poking him insistently, as if his sleepiness is a personal insult.

“Hnngh… Lady Julia? I thought you would still be in your room at this early hour. Are walks in the garden while our fathers constantly argue that exciting?” He sits up and flips his mop of chestnut-colored hair out of his eyes, still misty with sleep. 

You perch, birdlike, on the footboard of his bed. “And why wouldn’t they be? At least with you there, there’s something to contrast with all those roses’ bright colors, after all. And Njorun has been in a lovely mood lately, too, so it’s nice to see her.”

“Well, that makes one of us, then. Don’t you get tired hearing your father yelling about his authority all the time? Because I certainly do. I’d like nothing better than to be flying over Thracia’s peaks right now, but since the two of them are having a tongue-lashing contest, I can’t. Castles are so stuffy sometimes.”

You tilt your head to the side, momentarily considering something. “Well, it is true that Travant’s being a bit unreasonable. After all, he has the united Thracia he’s always wanted thanks to my father, doesn’t he? Even if it’s only as an administrator. Wouldn’t it be fair to at least listen to my father’s requests?”

“I might agree with you, if only I knew what they were arguing about. But Father says it doesn’t involve me, so I’m not going to look into it.” Arion walks into the closet with a sigh. 

With his back to you, you can’t hide the smile playing across your lips any longer. “Something of great importance to both of our kingdoms, I’m sure. Shall we go down to the river today? I heard there were rainbow trout around.”

“That sounds wonderful, Lady Julia. Are there fishing rods around we could use?”

You give a small giggle. “I’m sure we can dig some up. Shall we?”

The rest of the morning and a great part of the afternoon are spent most enjoyably fishing for absolutely nothing at all. (At least, that’s what Arion catches, while you sit together on a moss-covered rock by the river’s edge.) As the sun starts to set, he suggests, rather sheepishly, that you head back to Belhalla for supper. 

Supper is delicious, but the two of you aren’t joined by either of your fathers. When you’re about to head off to your separate rooms for the night, Travant bursts into the dining hall, looking haggard. “Arion, we’re heading home tonight. Make sure Njorun is well fed before we head out.”

You give a small pout. “Can’t he stay here? We had such a wonderful day, and he can fly home on his own, can he not? It just seems like we’re never allowed time together…”

Travant’s expression momentarily softens for your sweet act. “I’m sorry, Lady Julia, but we have some important business to take care of back in Thracia, and I would be remiss if I allowed Arion to miss this opportunity for learning. I’m sure you’ll be able to see him again soon.”

You smile slightly. “Well, that’s good at least. Good luck to you two on your journey, and may the stars guide you home safely.”

Travant laughs slightly. “That’s not a variant on the phrase I’ve heard often. Usually it’s the gods people wish to guide you home. I like it, though. It makes it seem like the fate of your journey is less set in stone, since anyone can read the stars. Good night, Princess.”

With a wave, you wish the pair and their entourage goodbye, and then go to seek out your father. He’s in his study, as usual, head in his hands and a grim expression on his face. Your cheerful tone clashes even more with his existence than usual.

“Good evening, Father. I expect your discussion went well?” When he doesn’t respond, you place a small hand on his shoulder and watch him flinch. “Father?”

“It went as well as could be expected for the topic at hand.”

You sigh in an exaggerated manner. “You know that’s not what I’m asking you, unless cobwebs really have started gathering in your brain in the past few years. Did you obtain Thracia’s consent or not?”

“...Yes. They have agreed to participate in this… activity of yours.”

You smirk. “Well, of course a former mercenary would have no backbone. That makes… every significant province, I believe? Discounting Friege.”

Without responding, your father gets up and leaves for his chambers. You wait a few minutes, rifling through the papers on his desk, and then follow him. You arrive fashionably late to a locked door. Peering through the crack in his door, you see it’s bolted, and him crouched on his bed. Through the door, you hear him sobbing. Although you can’t help but feel sorry for him in this state, there’s another feeling in your chest. Pangs of jealousy, for his autonomy, his ability to cry. If he wanted to, he could die fighting darkness.

You don’t have that. All you have the opportunity to do is watch, as you do now.  
You walk through the halls towards a room you know the location of by heart by now, dwelling on it.

At least now you know why the arena leading from the hidden room Manfroy used to occupy exists.

Thinking longer on it, you wonder if that’s why so many castles in general have them. After all, these castles aren’t relics of the Gran Republic, that’s for certain. Far too much fire followed that rule’s destruction for anything to remain.

Does that mean, then, that Loptyr is the rightful ruler of these lands? 

Any castle over a couple of hundred years old probably saw her supervision at its construction. When one thought of it that way, the grand rule of Grannvale and the hundred years of peace that preceded this were simply a small break in a line of tragedy.

Even if you’re gone, will this tragedy repeat? Is that what the Galles of the past wondered?

You’re brought out of your thoughts by a scream. If you could, you would have flinched. Apparently, the current competition was no longer that.

You watch, with an unreadable expression, as the victor (the source of the scream) is dragged back to the hidden passages below the castle. Manfroy looks at you expectantly, as if thinking you will review the prior events like a play. 

Of course, you do. 

“Must it always be so boring, Manfroy?” You rise from your seat and stretch to your pitiable full height. “It’s as if there’s no conflict in these children’s hearts besides the fear of death. Are they really that unused to war that that’s the only thing they fear?”

“I apologize, my lady.” Manfroy has slowly started to walk on eggshells around you, thanks to Loptyr’s incorrigible whims. Though you can’t say you enjoy being feared, there is a spiteful part of you that’s glad he’s been cut down to size. “They have enjoyed a century of peace, after all. Perhaps later, when the hunts are more commonplace, it will become more interesting?”

“Perhaps.” You brush him off, like a clingy pet, and stalk off to your chambers. Perhaps, yes. But you can only hope that they- or you- end before that point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> travant's "i gotta protect my people, man" thing combined with his son being engaged to the devil doesn't really mix well. although in his defense he doesn't know that she's, well, that yet. i wonder what's going through his head. "my long-time friend and ally has gone completely off his rocker for some unknown reason and i have to argue him out of it" or something. also featured in this chapter is Julia: Now With Extra Internal Conflict


	12. Chapter 9

Summer is, by either of your accounts, the worst possible season. 

For you, it’s the season that you made your worst mistake, so it’s filled with an even-more-consistent melancholy than usual. And for “you”, it’s simply annoying due to the nuances of having a human body. After all, being a noble, the lightest clothes you’re allowed to wear consist of at least four layers, and Grannvale is ridiculously humid. Furthermore, “you” constantly attempt to lay in the sun, like some kind of malevolent lizard, before turning into a bucket of sweat and going indoors to grumble about the weather. 

(That’s a problem for you, too. Even when you have more pressing things to worry about, near-heatstroke is never pleasing.)

And of course, the smell is utterly disgusting. You have no idea how you’re paying attention to your sewing with the assault on your senses, but you suppose it’s due to “your” greater experience with those sorts of things.

Whatever the cause may be, you continue under these miserable conditions while waiting for your reprieve to knock on your door. The forests of Thracia, while still warm, cannot compare to the plains of Grannvale. Therefore, even a crowded monastery there should be far less taxing to your health. Oh, and something about magic teachings for bishops, but you’d prefer to ignore that. 

(Nasty stuff.)

The reprieve finally comes, probably dying of heat in his dark robes, nearly half an hour later. With the knock on the door, you carefully place your current project in the second closet, and then toss a blanket over it. You- and you- would prefer that no one finds it. 

“Hello, Manfroy. Did you perhaps decide to spend the morning writing a novel, rather than preparing for our travel to Thracia? The sun is no longer high in the sky. Is preparing the day before a journey a concept unknown to you?”

The archbishop attempts to maintain his composure, a feat that though you despise him, you can’t help but admire. “I apologize, Lady Julia. I was discussing the management of Belhalla’s branch of the church with Bishop Jufiel. It would not do for this place to stagnate while we are away, milady.”

You sigh. “I suppose that is acceptable. Let us waste no more time, in that case.”

“Certainly, milady.”

The magic of Warp and Rewarp has always interested you- it has a different “warm feeling” than other staves. It almost sends chills up your spine, yet doesn’t. Before you have enough time to think about the feeling, though, it’s gone, and you’re standing in a cool, dark forest, outside an ominous monastery.

Well, it’s not the least pleasant place you’ve ever been.

You carry your few things into the surprisingly large room you have been given. Thinking about it, it might be larger than your chambers at Belhalla? Somehow, that stings a bit.

You mix the inkwell and sit down at the generously provided desk, not sure what to do. After all, your tutelage begins tomorrow, not today, and none of your long-term projects are here. Perhaps you should take up doing what you scornfully accused Manfroy of, and write a novel?

Before you can even consider that proposition, though, you hear your door’s bolt jiggle, as if someone is attempting to break in. 

You stand, as slowly and quietly as you can, and sneak over to the door. If someone is attempting to break in, you can be assured that they won’t attempt that again, thanks to “you.” If someone isn’t, but just hit the bolt accidentally… well, they might not attempt that again, either. 

You peer through the keyhole, and are met with someone else’s eye. This so surprises you that you flinch backwards, nearly dropping your tome on the floor. You collect yourself, though, and fling the door wide, knocking the keyhole peeper down the hall with a surprised “Oh!”.

The wordless glare you send down the hall after her would make anyone shrink back from you in fear and immediately apologize. Instead, though, this girl simply stares at you, and then smiles.

“Hello! Sorry about peeking into your room. I was just excited to see someone else my age, you know? Everyone else around here is old priests and priestesses who never talk to me. I was really happy when Grandpa said the princess would be coming, since you’re around my age. Oh, that’s right! I’m Sara. It’s nice to meet you.”

You stand there, staring as if the girl in the hall has grown another head. 

“Sorry, did I scare you? I’m sorry.” The girl picks herself off the floor. “Grandpa only refers to you as Princess or Lady, so I’ve never really heard your name. What is it?”

Attempting to reply, you make a noise somewhat like a strangled frog. “L- ah, Julia? What makes you think- what on- what in the seven hells are you doing outside my room? Do you know who I am? And who, might I ask, is this grandfather of yours? I will be having words with him.”

The girl- Sara- wilts. “Do you not want to be friends? I’m sorry. I should have known that I-”

You interrupt her before she can finish her self-deprecation. “Answer the questions.”

“Oh… Well, for the first one, I already said it, but I wanted to meet you, because you’re only around three years older than me, and I thought we could be friends? Second, you’re the imperial princess of Grannvale, and our hope for the future, right? Or something like that? And lastly, he’s Archbishop Manfroy. Milady.”

With that answer, you narrow your eyes. “If you are lying, I will see you again.” Following that statement, you walk down the hall past her, ignoring her small plea for you to wait. 

You never expected that man to have a child, much less a grandchild. Though you can’t say she resembles him much. 

Before you can seek him out, though, Manfroy comes rushing around the corner, spewing apologies like a fountain. “I am very sorry- looking for someone- if you’ll please excuse me, milady-”

“Are you looking for Sara?”

He stops short. “Yes. I expect you’ve met her? I hope she caused you no trouble.”

“She was peeping into the keyhole of my room, looking to be friends, or something inane like that. She claimed to be your granddaughter. Is this true?” You can tell from your body’s tenseness that you’re more than a little annoyed at being given the runaround.

“Unfortunately, yes, milady. I’m well aware that she’s an incorrigible, childish, softhearted fool, but she is necessary. Or, at the very least, quite helpful.”

Well, she is ten years old. Most ten year olds do have a tendency to be childish, due to, well, being children? Manfroy’s probably forgotten that time of his life, though, and you’re not sure that Loptyr ever was a child. “Helpful in what way? All she’s done from my observations is disrespect me and nearly cause her own death. I sincerely hope that your excuse for that thing’s existence is good.”

“Not that I would presume to press anything on you, Lady Julia, but she is… somewhat talented in magic. I considered, perhaps, that she might fit as one of your… projects?”

Ah. 

Well, no wonder she’s nothing like him, if he has no intention of raising her at all. 

“I shall consider it. In the meantime, do attempt to fix that terrible personality of hers. She’s an interesting girl; it would be a shame if she were to cause too much trouble for us, you know.”

You walk back to your room. When you round the corner to your hall, you see Sara still sitting in the hall.

Instead of greeting you cheerfully, like she did before, she stares at you- or, to be more precise, through you- with utter horror, saying nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julia is not working on a quilt. And hello, Sara cameo! She doesn't do much except provide conversation fuel about Deadlords, unfortunately. Still, she's cute, and one of the best Ests in the series. Let's hope nothing bad happens to her.


	13. Chapter 10

A bird sings outside your window, awakening you before sunrise.

In your half-awake state, you consider what would happen if you just killed it and went back to sleep. You don’t want to be awake now, anyway. There’s a conference of lords, and they’re incessantly going to be arguing about what to do with territory lands and bothering you all day. 

Well, you really could just kill that bird and sleep through it all, couldn’t you. As you consider doing that as opposed to just plugging your ears with cotton and not hurting anything, the bird squawks and stops singing.

Oh, right, you’re not the one who makes the decisions here. 

You drift off to sleep, feeling only mildly disappointed at your lack of agency.

An hour later, you’re awakened by a soft trio of taps on your door. “Lady Julia?”

You roll off your bed and tug on a robe. “Come in, Arion. It’s a nice day today.”

He enters, looking very overdressed for the occasion of waking you up, with his cape on and everything. Still, you suppose he was at the conference with his father. “Hello, Lady Julia. Did your father not expect you to be at the conference today?”

Shaking your head, you pat the bed beside you, for Arion to sit. “No, I’m afraid not. He says I’m still too young, you know. Despite the fact that I can speak politics just as well as he can, and more charismatically, too. You’d think I was a child with the way he talks!”

Arion sits uncomfortably. “Well, perhaps it’s for the best. The things being discussed nowadays are… things I’d prefer not to be subjected to myself, to be honest.”

 

Here it comes. “Oh, you mean the child hunts?”

He starts. “You- you’re aware of them?” 

“Somewhat. Why?”

“Why?” He stands up sharply. “Why? Because they’re the exact opposite of the peace the Empire strived for for the past fifteen years! Regardless of the fact that we have no idea what happens to the children who disappear, we’re expected to simply give custody to the Empire, and explain that to our people?” 

You tilt your head to the side, in a very convincing imitation of confusion. “I mean, isn’t it obvious? There have been rebellions in Isacch and Silesse, even before this institution. Wouldn’t it make more sense to train our citizens to resist the rebels than to just sit idly by and send our own armies in, often far too late to prevent damage? Think reasonably, Arion.” 

Arion sits down at your desk, rather heavily. “I don’t know, Lady Julia. I just don’t know.”

“Well, whatever you know or do not, I’m sure you’ll reach the correct conclusion in the end.” 

With that statement, you walk into your closet and shut the door, adorning yourself for the rest of your time with Arion. And the other meeting (though you don’t know with who) that you have planned for the day. 

(The notes for it that you have enciphered on your desk seem a bit too gloating for it to be with someone like your father or Travant, though.)

Nonetheless, you exit bedecked in your usual gold and violet, and offer an invitation to Arion to get his mind off of your… well, he thinks they’re your father’s decrees. No need to change his mind on that.

“Arion, dear, have you ever ridden a horse? If you haven’t, there’s a wonderful opportunity today. With all the nobility here, the stables are sure to be in excellent shape, and a squire or a currier might even have some time free to teach you.” You smile innocently. “Unless you’re afraid of falling off something without a big, wide back like a wyvern, of course.”

He denies the accusation immediately, and the pair of you head down to the stables. You don’t have a personal horse, of course, owing to the fact that they’re all nervous around you. Well, it wouldn’t be odd. There is a reason why the wyverns’ eyrie and the horses’ stables are separate. But a squire, glad to be around nobility that isn’t only you for once, happily volunteers to teach Arion.

Arion, for his part, does a heroic job of managing not to fall off, even at a gallop. But after a few hours of you laughing from the sidelines at his efforts, he gives up, laughing along. 

You help him down. “Well, so much for my fantasy of a prince on a white horse coming to sweep me away.” 

“Indeed. I hope an ebony dragon is good enough for you, milady?” Arion laughs. All thoughts of lordly conflict and hidden atrocities seem, thankfully, gone from his head. 

If Loptyr pushed him away too, you don’t know what you would do with yourself. Well, you do, but you don’t want to think about that. 

The sun is far lower in the sky now, so the two of you head in to dinner. You can tell by your own body language that you’re certainly not looking forward to it, but to spend time with Arion, it’s not something that you can avoid.

Nonetheless, you manage to look dour the entire time, even with the rich selection of fruits and meats available to you. Even after the meal and after you wish Arion well due to his lengthy travel, you remain annoyed. At least, until you see a certain face.

“Oh, Duchess Hilda! May I speak with you for a moment?”

The unpleasant woman holding a half-full glass of wine turns your way. “Princess Julia? Of course, but for what reason do I have the honor?”

You lead her to a quiet corner. “I have, if you would accept it, a special mission for your daughter. One that would make her quite a favorite in the Empire’s eyes, were she to complete it.”

Hilda’s eyes narrow, and even though she must have imbibed several glasses of wine by now, she speaks perfectly coherently. “Oh? And what sort of mission would that be?”

“Well, you care for your family very deeply, do you not? I’m sure you will understand where I am coming from with this proposition, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A surprisingly violent inner Julia. I wonder if that has any bearing on anything whatsoever. This is mostly just setup, though.


	14. Chapter 11

Night falls, and Ishtar, just as you expected, arrives at the door to your rooms with a timid knock. “Lady Julia? Are you there? My mother sent me. It’s Ishtar, of House Friege.”

You set the history book you’ve been reading down on the shelf. “Yes, do come in. I trust Hilda informed you of everything?” Due to the fact that you specifically told her not to, you do not trust in that statement whatsoever.

Ishtar enters, holding her arm across her chest, almost as if she’s guarding herself. “No, milady, I am afraid not. She simply told me that the Imperial Princess had an important mission for me. May I light a candle? It’s awfully dark to be reading in here.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Of course. Now, as for your mission. I am sure that you are aware that my mother and brother’s funeral was entirely closed casket?”

“Yes, although I don’t exactly understand what that has to do with my current task.”

You sigh. “If you would please allow me to speak before going off on tangents. Yes, it was closed casket. Now, that was for multiple reasons. One being that it had been a significant amount of time since my mother’s death, and it would be unseemly to have an open casket with that sort of event.” You stand up, abruptly. “And secondly, because Julius’s casket contained nothing whatsoever.”

Ishtar gasps. “Then, Prince Julius- he’s alive?”

You nod. “Indeed, though I doubt the rest of the information I will relay to you will cause such joy. You see, the reason that he was said to have died is simple. He killed my mother, and then fled the castle.”

Ishtar’s face turns a porcelain shade of white. “He- he what?”

“I was there. The two were training when he suddenly turned on her and then fled. Had he noticed me, I likely would be dead as well.”

The girl collapses onto the floor before you. “I- why would he do such a thing? I can’t understand… I just can’t understand. And why was it hidden? Wouldn’t you want your mother and wouldn’t Emperor Arvis want his wife’s killer apprehended as quickly as possible?”

“Well, I certainly did. But my father refused to do anything whatsoever about it, you see. He had already lost his wife, and acknowledging the fact that his son was her killer was unconscionable to him. So he simply refused to acknowledge it, and his mind has been breaking due to the strain of it ever since.”

“Emperor Arvis… the poor man…”

“I suspect that is likely why a certain practice has been reinstated in the Empire. Without being able to blame his son for the tragedies that befell him, he had to find some scapegoat, did he not? Thus, it naturally fell to the people. Though what he is doing is unforgivable, I cannot say it is incomprehensible.” You shake your head sadly, as if you had no part to play in any of this. Which is, though you’re loath to think it, rather easy to swallow. After all, no one would suspect the “sweet” Imperial Princess of any wrongdoing unless it was laid bare before their eyes.

Ishtar’s eyes are watering. “I’m sorry, milady, but do you perhaps have a handkerchief? Again, my deepest apologies.” You hand her one silently, and allow her to grieve for a few minutes.

She finally stops sniffling. “I again apologize. Please continue, Princess.”

You nod gravely. “I am sure you have an inkling of the task I plan to set you, but I will spell it out anyway. Ishtar, you are one of the most powerful mages in all of Grannvale. I would be honored if you could do what I cannot, and capture my brother. After all, even if he is a murderer, I wish for it to be proven in fair trial here, at Belhalla castle.” You lean forward and clasp her hands between yours. “Will you do this for me? Will you help me avenge my mother?”

“Lady Julia… I cannot imagine how I would feel were my mother to be killed. I will gladly help you avenge your family, and, I do hope, save the Emperor in the process. With a confession, maybe… maybe he will stop this madness? Do you think?”

You agree heartily. “Of course. He would have no more conflict in his heart. He would know what to do going forward. I’m sure you can do it, Ishtar. If anyone can, it is the Goddess of Thunder.”

Ishtar, half smiling and half crying, nods. “I will find and capture the Imperial Prince, and save this land. I promise you.”

As she leaves, it’s hard for you to contain your laughter. Hook, line, and sinker, just like Reptor before her, hmm?

Wait, did you know Reptor? He died before you were born, did he not?

Well, maybe you’re just remembering a story your father told you. Even though he preferred to ignore the conspiratorial bits of his life.  
Nonetheless, no matter what happens with Ishtar, you’ll benefit. If she succeeds, your brother will fall right into your lap, and if she falls, then Julius’s betrothed no longer has any influence at Belhalla.

And both ways, rumors will spread that your father is responsible for the child hunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Ishtar's just going to have a great time in this universe, isn't she?  
> I figured it would be easier to convince people you're harmless when you're the princess, inheriting nothing, than the prince of and heir to a gigantic empire. Lopty's taking full advantage of that.


	15. Interlude III

As you round the street corner, you see a pair of knights arguing in front of a shop. You walk a little faster, still buffeted by Isaach’s spring winds, until you’re past them. It’s a pity you have crimson hair and not a color that’s less recognizable, like blonde, or brown. Even russet would be less conspicuous. 

In a place like Ganeishire, though, black would be by far the best hair color to have. Lewyn doesn’t even leave your house on most days, citing his emerald hair as the cause, although you’ve noticed that he was a good deal more lethargic over the winter, which might be a more proper explanation. Nevertheless, you arrive home with your flour and vegetables, capable of sustaining the two of you for a week or more. 

However, Lewyn isn’t there, and you hear shouting down the road. You focus on putting away the groceries, and try to hide your face a little. It wouldn’t do well to be caught by knights and recruited into the Grannvalian military, even though it would be less of a tragic fate than what getting caught three years ago would have brought you. 

Nonetheless, when you hear the sounds of clashing steel, you run to your window, and look down the road. What you see stuns you. Harold, the Dozel-placed lord of this place, is on the defensive against a young boy!

Wielding a shining silver sword, the boy shouts something, and then leaps up in the air, knocking Harold to the ground. The general reaches for his axe, but cannot grab it before weakness overtakes him and he slumps to the ground, dead.

Hesitantly, you step outside. Is this the so-called Liberation Army? Could this be? Before you can ask any more questions to yourself, you see Lewyn step out from behind the young boy and start talking to him. Whatever they’re talking about, the boy seems entirely focused on it, and then he suddenly nods. Lewyn and the boy come half-walking, half-jogging towards you. 

“Julius!” Lewyn says. “I have someone I’d like to introduce you to. This is Seliph, the leader of the Liberation Army… and the true heir to Grannvale.” You can’t help but stare for a little bit. He must be only a few years older than you, yet he’s leading an army to liberate Jugdral? And taking to the front lines himself, instead of hiding behind his men… what an honorable man.

“Oh, ah, I’m sorry. I need to introduce myself. My name is Julius, and I’m afraid I have no memories of who I was before six years ago. Regardless, I admire your cause, and if all Lewyn has told me is true, I admire you as well.”

The boy- Seliph- looks surprised. “Ah. Well, really, it’s mostly the rest of the army who do the work. I only help out. After all, I may be the descendant of Crusaders, but it’s not like I wield their power in battle. Tyrfing remains in Belhalla, after all. Really, if you’re going to praise me, at least praise Larcei ten times more. Or maybe don’t. She may be a skilled swordfighter, but it does get to her head sometimes.”

Lewyn shakes his head. “You’re far too modest, milord. Regardless, I have a request to ask of you. Since I will be joining you as your tactician, can I ask that Julius be in your care? He may not remember much, but he is quite skilled with a staff.”

You’d be happy to go along with Seliph, to be quite honest. Hiding in occupied towns and hoping you didn’t get snatched up by the child hunts or the army is no way to live. It is for that reason you breathe a great sigh of relief when you hear Seliph’s next words.

“Of course. We could do with as many skilled warriors as possible, and having you by our side seems like it would be a great help. Why don’t I introduce you to our other staff user, Lana?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Julius, after a long drought. I figure that anyone who sees Seliph roll up to their house to save the day would be pretty enamored with him, not even necessarily in a romantic way, but just as a figurehead. That's how I like to interpret canonical pre-memories Seliph and Julia's relationship. (Kaga do not interact.)


	16. Chapter 12

“Annoying.”

You declare this to no one in particular. You think it’s annoying, too, but for an entirely different reason.

The man beside you mutters something you can’t hear, before handing you a mug filled with a warm tonic that he’s made you more times than you can count. You say a curt word of thanks. 

“You shouldn’t strain yourself, Your Imperial Highness. Stress will only make your headache worse, and-”

“But it’s annoying. And it’s not my fault, to begin with! I tell you- Augh!”

Your head is pounding, but you’re still managing to keep focus. After all, if you don’t manage to let Saias know anything now, he’ll never have a chance to change it.

You heard him telling Arion about a girl with a cursed sword, and how he purified it and saved her from the darkness. And when you did, a very silly thought got caught in the back of your head, and you haven’t been able to get it free since. Even if he doesn’t know how… even if he can’t actually help you… you at least want him to know that you’re still there, that the person who is you is not you. 

Looking back on it, that was a very confusing sentence, but since the majority of your current focus is on screaming, or at least attempting to do so, you don’t really care.

You finish the tonic (it tastes oddly like carrots) and sit up straight, opening your mouth to bark orders at Saias. Before you get your first word out, though, you go limp.

Confusedly, you grab for your quilt-

YOU grab for your quilt.

Frantically, you leap up from the bed, to immediately clutch your head because it’s still throbbing. You don’t have enough time, you don’t have any time…

Saias rises so fast he knocks over his chair. He grabs your shoulder “Your Highness, I told you not to strain yourself! You could fall and crack your-”

Your voice rises to a near-hysterical pitch. “It doesn’t matter! Saias, you- ugh- you have to listen to me! I’m not- she’s not- you have to help me- I…”

You suddenly feel very faint.

“I… can’t stay…”

You go limp again, too soon.

When you next open your eyes, your face is contorted with rage. When you see that you’re not alone, however, it near-instantly shifts to what could be passed off as “mild annoyance”. Saias is still there, and a fresh tonic is at your bedside, but at the foot of your bed itself is a very concerned-looking Arion.

“...Lady Julia? Are you all right? The good bishop told me you were saying some very odd things, and I hurried here posthaste from Thracia Castle. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.”

“...Wretched.” You clutch your still-throbbing head a bit more tightly than is strictly necessary. When you remove your hand, you have no doubt that there will be fingernail marks on your scalp. 

“I’m… sorry?” Arion looks abashed. 

“I feel absolutely wretched. Although… I am glad that you’re here. I’m too sick to speak properly, unfortunately, but I have no doubt that I will feel better soon.” You sit up slowly. “Actually, I think I’ve recovered enough to visit the gardens. We did go last autumn, yes, but there are some lovely spring plantings. Shall we?” You extend your hand to him daintily.

Saias cuts in. “Your Imperial Highness, I don’t think that’s the best of ideas-”

“I am sure you do not. Serendipitously for you, though, you do not have to live with the burden of rule, and thus you do not make my decisions. Let us go, Arion.” You motion your head to the door. 

The clouds hanging over the garden punctuate your inspection of the flowerbeds with low rumbles in the distance. The rain has yet to arrive in Manster, though. Arion stands by your side, looking more worried than admiring.

“Lady Julia?”

You start. “Yes? Oh, did you know that this is a new type of rose? The older variety has more yellowish flowers, but this one manages a peach color. It’s very pretty, don’t you think?”

“Do you remember the last time we were here?”

“Hmm?” You tilt your head to the side. “Last year, yes? Why?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if you were angry with me. Since… well, the argument we had last year.”

“Oh!” You give a light laugh. “I wasn’t even angry with you then, so of course not. You were simply misguided, and I know that. If anyone had angered me, it was your father.”

“I… see.” He looks anxiously towards the castle entrance, as if either waiting for someone or looking for an escape route. Maybe both. 

“I simply like this garden. It’s maintained well, you know? I haven’t seen a single pest or weed the entire time we’ve been walking. I’d love to be able to replicate that.”

Arion just nods tightly, obviously uncomfortable. 

“I need you to be able to do that, of course. I’m glad you’ve realized that it’s for the best for you to remain by my side.” You lean on his shoulder. “Hm?”

You’ve noticed the girl by the entrance to the garden, looking at you with something that couldn’t quite properly be called a glare, but unpleasantness nonetheless. When she notices that you’ve seen her, she marches up to the pair of you with a concerned frown. 

“Arion! There you are. Father’s been worried sick, you know! You left without giving him a word, and just told one one of the cleaning maids that you were off to Manster? You’re needed at Thracia, as you well know, and it’s incredibly irresponsible to leave at such a pivotal time. I-”

You give a slight cough.

“Yes, what is it?”

Completely ignoring her, you turn to your companion. “...Arion, who is this girl, exactly?” 

He shifts uncomfortably. “That would be my sister, Princess Altena. I apologize for her rudeness- I don’t believe that she’s been introduced to you?”

“I would not be surprised if she was but decided to take that tone regardless.” Your tone is icier than normal. “Nevertheless, no, I don’t believe that she has. Would you kindly do so?”

“Certainly, milady.” Arion nervously assents. “Altena, this is Imperial Princess Julia, my fiance and the heir apparent to the imperial throne. Lady Julia, as I’ve mentioned, this is my younger sister, Altena.”

Altena stares a bit. “Oh, you’re the Imperial Princess. My apologies for my rudeness. Nevertheless, we’re having a meeting at Thracia Castle, due to the fact that a smaller subset of the rebel army is attempting to retake the Manster District, and they’re rather close to joining up with the main force. So if you will excuse Arion and I.”

You give an audible snort. “Fine. Do as you wish. Good health on your journey, Arion.” It’s painfully obvious that the corollary to that statement is “the opposite to you, Altena” but, well, you can’t make a snide comment about it, except in your head. 

You pray for the safety of both, just to make sure. Not that it matters, really, coming from you. But just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the way this story was built made reinhardt completely irrelevant, so i wanted to have someone with a similar level of connection (romantic or not) to arion to parallel him. thus, altena became moderately more relevant in this story than she is in fe4 (though not by a huge amount).
> 
> also, post this chapter, julia is starring in the film "Completely Giving Up" so that's fun and dandy, i guess.


	17. Chapter 13

The babbling brook near Alster brings minnows by, once in a while. You’re far more interested in the insects that skate over its surface, though.

How do they manage it? You’d drop like a rock if you tried to do the same, yet they float downstream, barely touching the water, without a care in the world. How you wish that you could.

After all, you’ve been having nightmares again. Now, you’re even flickering back to them in the daytime. Two silver-haired girls… who they are, you don’t know, but one seems so terribly sad. The other… she’s the nightmare itself.

There’s something dangerous about the sad girl, though. Something you’re not sure of…

Someone taps your shoulder, waking you from your hazy thoughts. You turn around to see a mass of blue, with a concerned look on its face. 

Seliph greets you with a smile, though not one unmarred by worry. “Hello, Julius. Did your thoughts start flowing away with the river?”

You give a faint smile in response. “Yes… I’m very sorry. We ought to be planning for the advance to Connaught now, shouldn’t we? And I’m just here looking at water skaters…”

“Don’t worry about it, really. I actually was looking about you because I wanted your input on some of our plans. You lived in Friege with Lewyn for a while, right?” His obvious comfort in relying on you warms your heart a bit.

“I did, yes. I don’t know all that much about their battle tactics, or anything, though, considering the capital city is relatively peaceful…” 

“Well, that shouldn’t be too much of an issue. What I was most concerned about wasn’t anything quite like that. It would just be much appreciated if you could inform me in any way about the Duke’s family. I… would prefer to avoid a situation like Ishtore’s repeating itself, if possible, and if appealing to their morals would improve our chances for parley, I’d like the chance to do that.”

You straighten up. “Oh! Well, I can tell you about them. To begin with, Duke Blume has- well, had- two children, Ishtore and Ishtar. Ishtore is sadly someone we could not reason with, but Ishtar is-”

The despairing girl from your dreams flashes in front of your eyes.

“She is-”

She’s trying to tell you something, but you can’t hear. Why can’t you hear.

“She- you... You must not fight her! You cannot!”

Seliph places a comforting hand on your shoulder, but the girl won’t disappear. You’re shaking and you can’t stop. 

“If you do… something terrible will happen. I know it.” You sit down suddenly. “You must try to talk to her, for the fate of- the fate of… for someone’s fate!” 

Your head hurts. 

Seliph carries you back to Alster, where Lana calms you down to a level where you can speak coherently. You reiterate that it would probably be best to at least attempt to talk her down before fighting her, but you can’t get that leaden weight out of the pit of your stomach.

It fades a bit as you sally, and the comforting greens of Manster soothe your soul. You were placed near the back lines at Leonster with a physic staff, thanks to your earlier breakdown, but you don’t mind. This way, you can preserve the lives of those you care for, without endangering your own.

(And without seeing the emptiness of the dead’s faces, especially victims of Nosferatu magic.)

You watch from behind as the lance knight, prince, and troubadour heroically fend off a brigade of cavalry, and you cheer internally when Patty’s running up and clinging to the archer with the glowing golden bow led to not more wounds, but to a heartwarming reunion of sister and brother. 

When the mage sisters fall, though, the weight in the pit of your stomach returns in full force. Something is coming, but you don’t know what, and you don’t know when…

You do know when, and it’s right now. 

You shout a warning to Nanna, who spurs her horse aside just before a glowing orb of thunder the size of a wyvern manifests itself in her place. One of the lashing sparks nearly hits you, too, before you fling yourself to the ground. A voice shouts for you to dodge, and you roll to the side as quickly as you can before another orb appears.

The source of the lightning makes herself known, rushing forwards with an indescribable amount of anger on her face and her silver hair blowing in the wind. The anger, evidently, is directed towards you, as she makes it known from her half-shout-half-scream of fury. 

“YOU!” You pick yourself up again just in time to dodge another strike. “You not only betrayed me, but everything your existence stood for! How could you do something like that? How could you? And now you’re fighting for the same rebels that killed my brother? Do you only exist to bring me pain? Is that it?” Her voice heightens in pitch with every word. “Answer me, traitor! Tell me! How could you kill Empress Deirdre?” 

Empress Deirdre?

Wasn’t she assassinated? But no, there’s something- your memory tells you that something isn’t right. But it can’t be! You never would have done something like that! She was a beacon of hope to all of Jugdral, and her death happened at almost the exact same time your life became a living hell! How could you have-?

While lost in thought, a shock brushes by your left side, and your right arm feels like it’s being ripped from its socket, suddenly. It’s not, though, it’s just a sudden lift onto a horse by Finn. Who currently seems to be shouting at the silver-haired woman- Ishtar? Is that her?

“Are you insane? Julius has never been to the capital in his life! Pray tell, how is he to assassinate the empress from fifty leagues away?”

The girl casts another bolt. “You’re the paragon of insanity! You allowed a monster like that into your ranks. Nothing shows me more that you’re not truly an army of liberation, but just an army of reconquest! If you wanted this to end, you would let me capture him and save the Emperor from his madness, but you will not!”

Huh? Your capture will make the Emperor return to his old self? You leap from Finn’s horse, and tumble ungracefully onto the ground before Ishtar, and drop both your staff and tome. If you can end this war now…

“What is the meaning of this? Don’t tell me you mean to seek forgiveness for your crimes now, Julius! Even if I forgive you, Emperor Arvis and the princess never will! You may as well go down fighting, you know. I’m sure that’s what you really want to do- kill me too, besides my brother. Well? Pick up your weapon, you dog! Answer me!”

You bow. “I cannot in good conscience do that, milady.” Shock writes itself all over her face with your words. “You see, I have no memory of this monstrous event. But if I am the perpetrator, and if my capture will return the emperor to his former kind rule, there is no moral way for me to remain with the Liberation Army, as noble as I believe their cause to be. Please, take me with you to Belhalla.”

She stares at you as if you’ve grown another head. “But… no, you’re just lying, aren’t you? As soon as I try to capture you, you’ll try to kill me too, right? Right?” She walks over to you, and you motion Finn to stop his advance towards her. If you’re truly the villain, you must die. You cannot allow him to stain his hands with another righteous soul’s blood. 

She grabs you by the elbow suddenly, and you feel charged air dangerously close to your face. Still, you don’t move. If you did, you would be dishonoring her. 

All the force fades out of her grasp. “You… you really don’t know whether you did it or not? You don’t remember anything?”

You shake your head sadly. “I don’t remember anything from before I was ten, unfortunately. But I’m sure that there’s evidence pointing to me as the culprit, so please, take me with you and avenge the empress. I may be a completely different person now, thanks to my lack of memories, but I can’t absolve myself of my sins simply by saying that.”

She lets go completely. “That… that can’t be right. That’s not what I was told. The princess told me that she saw you kill her and gloat over it! She told me that you ran because you knew that you couldn’t hold a candle to Emperor Arvis in combat! She told me… she told me that you’d told her you planned to come back for her…” 

Ishtar’s hands drop to her sides. “But… there’s no way for you to have lost your memories like that. And the you now is an impossibility if that is truth. So did the princess… did she lie? But what-”

A look of sheer horror crosses her face.

“Oh. Oh, no. I almost- I’m sorry, Julius. I have to do something very important. I’ll be back and I’ll tell you everything, okay? I promise.” 

She pulls a strange-looking staff from below her cloak, and when it begins to glow, she begins to disappear.

Wait. If this princess lied, this woman- Ishtar- she’s the type of person to go and do that sort of thing, which means…

You struggle to your feet. “Wait! Just wait a moment! Please! You need to listen to me! You won’t be able to- Please, Ishtar!”

Before you can get another word out, she’s gone.

* * *

The book you’re reading is entirely uninteresting. That is what you have decided. It has no literary or entertainment value, and apparently both of you feel the same, as you’re almost falling asleep in your rocking chair.

The rain is pattering on the windows, and the hearth provides no wakening power, as its coals are smoldering slowly into nothing but cinders. A day in which nothing happens. 

Or, in which nothing would happen, were it not for those footsteps. The footsteps you hear in the hall are not those that stem from a calm, lazy day. Or even, for that matter, from a heated argument. These footsteps are erratic, rushed, directly towards the door of the parlor you’re currently occupying.

Said door slams open, and a soaking wet, furious, slightly sparking tower of a woman makes herself known by screaming your name at you.

“JULIA! You… you… you DEVIL!”

You shut your book with an uncharacteristic calmness. 

“Why, yes. I have been called that, on occasion. Is there any particular reason for your use of the epithet, though?” You tilt your head to the side, in a perfect imitation of a bemused expression.

Ishtar’s fury cannot contain itself within her body, and has started sending noticeable sparks off of her, no doubt shocking her each time due to her bedraggled state. 

“You… you tried to get me to kill the boy I loved, with a pack of lies. But that’s not all, is it? Is it, Princess?” She stands there, shaking like a leaf in the wind, and you feel the vague sense that if you still could, you would be shedding a tear. “Because what sort of reason would someone have to lie in order to end the life of the last living heir of Saint Heim’s blood?”

You smile a bit wider than your face really, properly, should allow. “You’re quite perceptive, if more foolish. I do wonder, though... have you made the final few connections in that bundle of threads you call your head? I’m sure there’s at least one logical leap you could make with that. Perhaps two, if you’re feeling especially bright. Well?”

You were expecting some kind of attack, but the slap across your face still takes you by surprise (though it doesn’t sting at all.)

“The first connection is obvious. I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, she-devil. But the second… Empress Deirdre was killed by one of her children, wasn’t she? But, monster, I wonder if you can make the third connection, and the one that’s far more relevant to this situation. Why don’t you humor me, before I enact it myself!”

You rise from your chair. “It’s a shame, you know. You could have been so useful to me, but you managed to be just a bit too canny. Oh well.The obvious third connection is this: You’ll die here and now, Goddess of Thunder, to further a true god’s empire. I do hope hell treats you kinder than I do.”

“I’d wish the same for you, yet that would be falsehood. Come! Face the fury of the heavens! Perhaps it will purify your damned soul!” 

Thunder and darkness clash, and the world turns into a myriad of flashing lights. You can’t understand everything that’s happening, but you know one thing: you are feeling no pain. 

And a minute later, when a scream punctuates the roars of magic, you’re well aware as to why. Ishtar is crumpled against the wall, clutching her side, as you approach, with not a scratch on your small body. She glares up at you. 

“Someone, someday, will strike you down, demon. There will never be another Lopt Empire. And I pray that that someone will be the prince you’ve wronged.”

“Hm? Not even a line about getting to see your brother again? I would have expected that from you, with your slavish loyalty to your family. But it wouldn’t be correct, of course. The only one you’re going to be seeing again is your love. Now, be silent.”

And, as commanded and encouraged by the spell you cast immediately following your order, she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unlucky number 13, huh... well, it certainly is for ishtar, at any rate. i got an air of impulsivity from her, even in the original fe4/5 with her basically being one of julius's puppets, so i figured that that wouldn't really serve her in handling a delicate case of the Emotions. 
> 
> fun fact: the original draft had her recruited! hahaha.


	18. Chapter 14

Wine. What a concept. 

After Ishtar’s funeral (with all the honor a warrior could receive- she was “killed by the rebel army” after all) Duchess Hilda had begun to spend more time in Miletos than before. And thus, due to your frequent visits (part of you hated this place, after all) you’d noticed her particularly stunning habit of partaking in the beverage. 

It was not exactly the type of habit that draws one to a person. Violent and weepy at intervals, she makes even you nervous with her unpredictability. You suppose that it’s not as much of a devil drink as the people say, due to that.

Thanks to that, you don’t spend too much time in the palaces, despite your duties, even when you do visit Miletos. 

The villages surrounding them are far more interesting to you. For disparate reasons, you’ll disappear for a day or so and simply… show up and expect to be accomodated.

Everyone in the area knows who you are by now, but they can’t really make up their minds as to what kind of person you are, despite that.

Whispers float down alleyways and land on your ears, giving you a passable idea. 

“That’s the princess, isn’t she? Odd. You’d have thought from the way people talk about her she’d seem a bit… friendlier.”

“What, you don’t see it? The way she carries herself… the way she speaks… it’s a paragon of noble charisma, isn’t it?”

“Charisma? I… guess you could call it that…”

You turn abruptly to look directly at the speaker, with a small smile on your face. He flinches almost imperceptibly before falling into a deep bow. 

“Your Highness. Can I, uh, do anything for you? I hope that our village has been keeping you and your family well, and all that.”

You nod slightly, not to anyone in particular, but just to confirm something to yourself that you’re not entirely aware that you know. You then proceed to tilt the man’s chin up and look into his eyes. He seems shocked at first, but then an almost-blank expression crosses his face. 

“Yes, actually, you can. Would you mind terribly introducing me to some of the finer local wines? I long to taste the flavors of Chronos, you see, and I’m sadly unaware of which are fine and poor uses of gold.”

The man straightens up, still with the hazy look on his face. “Oh! Certainly, Your Highness! Actually, I can treat you to some, since you’re honoring this village with your presence, milady. Here, come along this way.”

He motions for you to follow, and you happily do. You turn, for a moment, to look at his companion, who is looking at you as if he’s seen a ghost. He mutters something about “no gold… wasn’t he just saying she wasn’t all that charismatic… boys these days.”

Well, it’s not really his fault that he isn’t aware. Aware that he’d be susceptible to the exact same thing. 

You’ve learned, over the past few years, that people are awfully vulnerable to the power of suggestion, especially when you’re the one doing so. Anyone else, no matter how trustworthy they look, takes far more time to convince the same target. 

It’s funny, in a sort of grim way, considering you’re possibly the least trustworthy person in Jugdral. You sip your wine and listen (or rather, don’t) to your newly acquired companion attempting to regale you with stories of his supposed bravery. 

Well, he’s going to need a lot of it for what will inevitably happen to him. You’ve seen this song and dance before. You wonder absentmindedly what will happen to this one.

The last person that you made fall for you burned, and the one before that had their mind broken until they had no idea who they were or how they’d gotten the scars that gained them that lack of understanding in the first place. 

If there was a certain type of person who managed to be drawn in, you had yet to realize what type that was. Men and women alike, hard-headed and weak-minded, all seemed to lose all sense of logic when they looked into your eyes, as if you were an axis of gravity that their fates spun around.

Wait, technically, aren’t you the axis of fate of all of Jugdral? It’s only right that everyone in it should act like that.

Somehow, you wonder if you would have thought that sentence a year ago. 

Well, does it matter? Like it or not, you do determine Jugdral’s future and are its rightful- rightful what, exactly? You can’t remember.

Rightful something, at the very least. Maybe.

Your head hurts again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do love all the little tidbits you get in chapter 10 about how unsettling yet charismatic julius is. it's the little things about his inhumanity that really get to you, i think. anyway, julia is again starring in Completely Giving Up. now co-starring poor guy from the chronos metropolitan area (?) (is that what you'd call it back in the day? i guess?)


	19. Chapter 15

Days later, and your head still hurts. 

The last time this happened, Saias was there, but he’s disappeared for no good reason, and now you’re just wandering the halls of Belhalla getting angry at every single thing, living or not, that you pass by.

Manfroy’s been following you around like a lost dog, asking if there’s anything he can do for your condition and getting nothing but you snapping at him in response. No doubt he heard about what happened last time you had a headache like this,and wants to prevent anything… unfortunate from happening.

That’s not going to happen, though. It didn’t work last time, so why would you try again?

Besides, what’s going on in your head is too confusing for you to even attempt to focus on a single action. You doubt that you’re too focused, either, considering your aimless wandering. 

Some time later, though you don’t know how long, you stumble into your room and shut the door in Manfroy’s face before collapsing onto your bed. You shut your eyes and forcibly attempt to sleep, in hopes that it’ll free you from your headache.

The blackness behind your eyelids is somewhat comforting.

It’s soon replaced by an odd scene, though. You’re somewhere you don’t know- it looks a bit like Yied- and the sky is falling. 

The sky is falling? No, you’re just on the verge of collapse, so it looks like it’s shaking. That explains it. 

Oh, you’re shaking too. That probably doesn’t help. You fall to the ground. 

There’s blackness again, for you don’t know how long. Then you hear something. Footsteps, maybe? You experimentally stretch a bit. Wherever you are, it’s a bit too small to fit all of yourself properly, but you don’t hurt any more.

The footsteps, with a decidedly determined air (or so you think), draw closer. Then you hear a shout of surprise.

You blink open your eyes to see the silhouette of a man in a silver cloak, with hair to match. He’s no one you- or you- have ever seen before. But somehow he’s familiar.

He takes a step back in awe. “You… I never thought I’d have the chance for something like this… I never thought I would see one of you while I yet lived! O Gods, you smile on me on this day!”

You smile, ever so slightly.

Then you wake up.

Your headache is gone, now. That dream… you get the sense that it’s like the things you know about your father that he’s never told you.

It’s one of YOUR memories.

That man, you’re sure, is your- your body’s, that is- ancestor. The one who all the responsibility for your existence lies on. If that is a memory, though, it raises a troubling question.

Are only your memories overlapping with hers? If so, it’s understandable. You’ve been not yourself for so long, it’s only natural that some things that stay in the back of her mind would seep into yours (and, you realize unpleasantly, some things that you’ve forgotten may be things that she remembers.)

But if not…

If not, you’d have to go over your recent thoughts with a fine-toothed comb to make sure that she doesn’t interfere with your plans, the damned sympathetic-

No, you have to make sure that she doesn’t find out anything she can use against you or your father, the monster that she- 

Oh, damn it all, is your mind not your own? How useless.

Besides that and your body, is there anything else she could invade?  
Can’t she shut up for an instant? She should have known from the start that she had no privacy in her own mind- for the sake of making that clear, you even showed yourself to her- but no, humans are all children, who can’t understand that there are things more important than themselves in this world.

Well, if she knew she’d have access to my thoughts, why didn’t she realize that I’d have access to her own? Not just a monster, a self-centered one too. Why couldn’t you have just been erased, six years ago? It would have made all of this easier. 

The absolute inconvenience of it all, it’s all just useless. That man could have easily made this possible sooner, but he was so incompetent as to wait five years longer than he needed to. 

Now you have this thing in your head. 

Well, you won’t let it spoil anything whatsoever. You have an evening to get yourself to, and you won’t allow anyone, no matter how close, to stop it. 

You slam open the door, looking like a raging nightmare, and stalk down the hall in a worse mood than before your nap, if that sort of thing was at all possible. The maid you pass by drops her feather duster and nearly faints in fright when you glare at her for the clatter. 

The library is dark when you enter, and you realize that it’s nearly sunset. You’ve navigated these stairs so many times that it doesn’t cause an issue, though.

Manfroy looks at you in shock. “Milady? I thought you were ill?” Oh, right. He still thinks that your headache was the same kind as the last. 

“I am. But it’s not the type of illness that causes time to stand still, as fortunate as that might be. Have you managed to prepare everything for tonight, at least?” You’re digging your nails into the palms of your hands. 

He nods uneasily. “Yes, milady. But are you sure that you-”

“Manfroy, do not think that I will tolerate being given orders due to a simple headache. Are the sacrifices ready, or have you been twiddling your thumbs for the past five hours? And if you have managed to not become a demonstration of human incompetence, give the order to begin.”

He bows. “Yes, milady. It heartens me to see you in a better state of mind than before.”

You give a snort. “I’m sure it does. I shall be seeing you at the arena.” With that, you abruptly gather yourself and make your way to the viewing stands, as you have before.

You remember all the times you’ve been here, immobilized in your body. Unable to tear your eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of you, even if you wished to (and oh, by the gods, you did.)

By now, though, there’s a sort of horrifying fascination to it all.

You’re sure that the you five or even three years ago would think you a monster, but she’d have no context. She wouldn’t have been forced to sit through this, nearly weekly, with her face twisted into a smile. And she didn’t have her in her head, or at least to the same degree that you do.

As you are now… what was the expression again? Something about pretending to be something until you could truly become that thing?

You’re close to not having it be falsehood, you realize. Blood stains the sawdust.

You’re oddly calm, calmer than you usually are. There’s not an odd thought in your mind, despite the recent altercation with that idiot. You halfheartedly wonder why, your interest far more taken in by the combat. Was allowing them to use bows a good idea, you wonder? Conceivably, with enough skill, they’d be far quicker and more effective than a simple melee weapon or magic. 

But these are, you concede, children. That level of skill simply isn’t possible. So it’s fine.

They’re weak-minded, just like she is. Hm, is that why? Yes, that should be so. She’s simply not forceful enough to affect your thoughts at all, besides that earlier state of confusion. 

If so, that should be excellent. If you can influence her thoughts and she can’t influence yours, even if that brat somehow does break through to her, there shouldn’t be a problem.

The lanterns slowly burn out as the fighting finishes, and you yawn despite yourself. Night comes to you, just as it shall to Jugdral, in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you thought this was a dual-narrator story? well you were RIGHT! it is. one of the narrators is just also two narrators, from now on.  
> (well, sort of, anyway. the certified Lizard Thoughts are just what Julia Original gets to hear, not necessarily everything that a certain dragon who went to college for their bastard's degree thinks.)


End file.
